


Love When It's Pitch Black

by Patchouli (lifelesslyndsey)



Series: Brothers Grim [9]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Klaus pov, Klaus unmentioned past, Lurky Diego, M/M, Sex Work, Stripping, Sweet Ben, mentions of drug use, out of body experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 02:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18240725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifelesslyndsey/pseuds/Patchouli
Summary: “You got this.” Ben doesn’t quite move away, but he shuffles back just enough to pat Klaus heartily on the back. “It’s just like riding a bike.”He fucking hopes it’s not! “I don’t know how to ride a bike.”“I---Christ, our childhood is tragic. It’s just like---” he shakes his head, and throws up his hands and Klaus loves him in so many different ways it makes his heart ache. “It’s just like riding a dick.”





	Love When It's Pitch Black

**Author's Note:**

> None of them have any fucking reasonable life skills that would translate well into adult jobs except for Vanya. Diego kind of proved that in failing the police academy. Allison does alright, I guess. But I genuinely believe that Klaus being a stripper makes a lot of fucking sense. 
> 
> Title from Dev's Dancing In The Dark

 

_ The Aviary _ has strippers. Female. Male. The in-between. The gender-less. Multi-gendered. Black. White. Blue. Green. The emphasis was on the dance,  _ not  _ the body.  Which was a bit of a fucking nightmare, because Klaus had never been much of a dancer. He could  _ move _ , though. Roll his body to the waves of the music, let it sweep him up, up, up and away.   Klaus had done it, high out of his fucking gord, and had made  _ hella fucking cash.  _ But that was then. That was then, those erstwhile years spent as a vagabond junkie with a perky ass and morals as grey as a sea storm sky.  That was when Klaus didn’t give a single shit. No amount of weed in all of Colorado could get him on the floor to peel his fucking clothes off while strangers pet his clammy skin, and tuck cocaine-cash in every nook and cranny and Klaus did lines straight off the floor, ass up, scoring more, now though. 

 

(He remembers it though. Through the milk-sweet haze of euphoria, how good it had felt. So loud - so fucking loud - and it had pulsed through him, made him tingle all over. The warm drag of sticky palms sliding over his skin leaving prickling, tickling fire in their wake. The way the cool, slick floor felt like liquid against his back. How every inch of his skin felt kissed, writhing warmth curling up his spine, a tangible thing. The taste of the air, all honeycomb water wine, sipping sweetly on a dry, parched tongue. The way the world went soft at the edges in shades of charcoal and blue, sweeping up the manic mist that haunted his fingertips. Crisp, crinkling bills, static on his skin. Hands in his hair, pulling him in. Burnt-sugar kisses biting at his lips, deep biting nails kissing up his hips---)

 

That’s not him anymore. 

 

He’s hot. 

He’s confident. 

He’s just not high enough for  _ that _ . 

  
  


So - The Aviary has strippers, down on the floor, on pedestals and poles. Klaus can’t---he can’t---

 

The birdcages are different. 

 

There are thirteen - three in every corner and one in the middle.  

 

They sway a little, suspended on thick fuck-off looking cables at varying heights from the high, industrial ceilings with cranks that raised them higher, brought them lower, taunting the crowd below like wide-eyed, pawing cats.  Klaus grasps the bars as his cage lowers further down, searching out his dorky-ass brother in the crowd. He’s easy to find, like a dark little rain cloud in a technicolor sea of molly and mayhem. The harness looks nothing so violent, nothing so lethal without the knives tacked in. He’s tense, spine curled like a question mark, hunching his shoulders.  He’s not comfortable here. Not at ease. Klaus kind of likes it, likes how fucking  _ helpless  _ he looks in a sea of sparkling drag queens, dancers and sweaty, glittered skin.  The neon lights flash like lightning behind the haze of sweet, artificial smoke. Diego looks like Klaus feels and it gives him the push to stand up straight and throw his shoulders back. 

 

He looks up at Klaus as if he’d yelled for him, and there’s a peek of perfect white teeth hidden behind his smile. 

 

_ Bravado take me away, _ Klaus thinks, feeling shivery and cold all over. All he has to do is grab the beat and move but it’s hard without ketamine, morphine,  _ anything _ , fuck. 

 

The music cracks, and the cages sway and shift and Klaus is dead fucking center because Klaus is a novelty, and the world does like their freak-show. Klaus had a stage name, back when he did this, Klaus had a whole  _ schtick _ . 

 

Some places called him Ghost, played off his ashy, colorless skin like something fine, something ethereal and not something born of too much coke and too little vitamin sunshine. One of the clubs on the on the east side called him Devil Doll; he’d worn a lot of dresses, a lot of thigh-high socks there. The seedy strip joint by the docks called him Smoke, and he’d danced to everything from  _ Patsy Cline _ to  _ Gwar _ . 

 

Mitch - the owner of The Aviary - had called him  _ Ouji _ . 

 

Mitch had known from the start  _ exactly  _ who Klaus was, took one look at the application he’d forced Klaus to fill out and narrowed his eyes. “Okay kiddo,” he’d said, all charm and yellow-smiles. “You the one with the ghost-thing.” 

 

Klaus had raised both his hands and wiggled them, a sloppy smile of his own splashed like spilled paint up and down his face. “I raise the dead.” 

 

“Well I need you to raise something else tonight.  You’re not the weirdest fucking thing I’ve hired. If you can shake your ass and smile, you’re hired.” 

 

“Just like that?” Klaus had blinked at him, smile slipping. “What if I can’t?” 

 

“Don’t think it’ll be a problem,” Mitch had laughed, with a critical sort of eye up and down Klaus’ body. It wasn’t greasy, wasn’t promising. It was business. “Don’t sell your ass out my doors, don’t get so coked up you can’t shake your ass. I ain’t care what brought you in, kiddo. We sell fantasy here, illusion. And I think you’re probably good at that.” 

 

Klaus had felt an inkling of sobriety pass by his fried, and sizzling brain. “I do okay.” 

 

“You need a stage name.” 

 

“You gonna call me The Seance?” He’d laughed, tipping his head back just to let the cold air of Mitch’s office bite at his bare neck. 

 

“Whoever you were, whoever you are? It don’t come here.” Mitch had reached across the table, palm extended and it was only reflect that raised Klaus arm and lead his hand to clasp over Mitch's palm. “ _ Ouji _ . You make em scream loud enough to wake the dead and I’ll put you in the cages, where the real monies at.” 

 

Klaus had made them scream, but he’d never got the chance to cash in on Mitch’s problem. Until tonight. 

 

Mitch called him fucking Ouji, and he’d always found that funny. But Klaus can’t wear it like a second skin anymore. Just like The Seance; they were all only ever comfortable coats to pull on just long enough to get out of the storm. It’s just him up here, him in the clouds, losing his high - but Diego’s there, looking up at him with his head cocked to the side like he’s fully ready to rescue Klaus from himself at the first sign of distress. 

 

The music cracks, and the cages sway and the crowd screams bright and sharp like a fucking Siren sea chant. Klaus can’t tell the dead from the alive here --- they all just dance, swept up in the heart-beat thump of the baseline beat. The type of spirits that end up here were typically too high to realize they were dead anyways. Klaus wasn’t about to tell them. 

 

The cage lowers again, and when it reaches the bottom, settles down on the pedestal, he’ll be in the crowd. 

  
  


“Close your eyes,” Ben tells him, and it’s only years of Ben just randomly fucking being there that keeps Klaus from startling. “Close your eyes, Klaus. You’re freaking yourself out.” 

 

No one else can see him, of course, but Klaus still keeps his mouth as still as possible as he speaks. “I thought you weren’t coming.” 

 

“Luther bought me  _ cheesecake _ .” Ben rolls his eyes - good boy be damned, he’s still going to fucking sass Klaus forever. “I could feel you panicking clear across town.” He touches Klaus face, brushes a thumb below his eye. “Just close your eyes, and breath. You loved this.” 

 

“Yeah - when I was more baked than a Christmas fucking ham.” The beat hasn’t dropped and so his stall is not strange yet. The DJ will draw it out like roadkill until Mitch announces the cage drop. Klaus curls his fingers around the bar and stares down at Diego whose not smiling anymore. He forces himself to grin, unfurling his  _ Hello Hand _ with a jaunty little wave. “Hella fucking drugs, mi hermano.” 

 

“You don’t need it for anything else, you don’t need it for this.” Ben steps back as the music begins to rise and the lights fade from something bright to something hazy and blue. “If you don’t love it, you never have to do it again. But you love it. You were doing it today in a bath towel, to  _ Fleetwood Mac. _ ”  

 

And that is true. That is a true thing that happened, only several hours ago.  Klaus loves Stevie Nicks. Her sweepy, lacy robe things give him feelings. “I love it, I love it, I love it,” Klaus echoes, letting his lashes flutter close. His heart’s still thumping too hard, but it’s catching the beat of another nameless song. “Okay. Okay. Right. Yes. Yee. Thank you. I’m good.” 

 

“You’re good at this,” Ben says, curling up close to him the way he does when he’s nervous. The same way a toddler might share their fucking security blanket, share the thing that makes  _ them  _ feel safe. Klaus is...grossly touched, feels all sorts of fucking weird inside by the simple gesture. He turns into it, as naturally as he can, and brushes his mouth over Ben’s hair. Touching...touching doesn’t come naturally to them. But by God, in spite of God, they’re fucking trying. “Plus, Diego looks super uncomfortable.” 

 

“I do enjoy when Diego looks uncomfortable,” Klaus agrees, faintly, letting his body sway to the music, to the movement of the cage. 

 

“You got this.” Ben doesn’t quite move away, but he shuffles back just enough to pat Klaus heartily on the back. “It’s just like riding a bike.” 

 

He fucking hopes it’s not! “I don’t know how to ride a bike.” 

 

“I---Christ, our childhood is tragic. It’s just like---” he shakes his head, and throws up his hands and Klaus loves him in so many different ways it makes his heart ache. “It’s just like riding a dick.” 

 

It startles a little laugh out of Klaus, and then it’s---it is easy. To just move. To roll with it, to wave with it, to the music and the lights and the high keening sound move him.  He closes his eyes, and feels Ben flitter out, but he doesn’t stop.

 

He moves, like a pendulum, a set, swirling rhythm. It feels hypnotic, the way waves rolling in on a sand-stretched shore can eat up your whole attention. The smoke weaves in, wrapping around the blue manic mist that always seems to chase him, candy-cane curl of pearl and periwinkle. 

 

The cage lowers more,  bringing him closer to the crowd, all the girls and boys and therebetweeners writhing to a rhythm he’ll be expected to dictate. 

 

“Introducing----” Mitch's voice bounces up and down his bones, echoing off the walls and the bars of the cage. 

 

_ Introducing. Introducing. Introducing.  _

 

_ “Hypnotiq.”  _

 

He feels his feet leave the bottom of the cage at the same time the cage moves, and the heat of the bodies around him is  _ soothing _ . He’s floating, he’s blue, he’s dancing with his eyes closed and it feels good. It’s like chasing a high, but a high that can’t hurt him. It’s  _ hypnotic _ , and the baseline thumps to the beat of his heart. There are other dancers, in cages and on tables, but Klaus has a spotlight painted on him from every angle. 

 

He peels his jacket off, lets it flutter to the bottom of the cage, peels his vest off and lets it join. The air is warm, and crackles over his skin and somewhere - Diego and Ben are watching.  The dead don’t stir, they just sway and nothing can touch him when the music eats him up. 

 

He’s not much of a dancer. 

 

But he can fucking  _ move _ . 

 

And so he does. 

 

The cage sways and the cage moves, spinning him like a carousel, lowering him down and down and down until he’s met the crowd.  Klaus doesn’t look at them, just lets the heat of their rolling bodies crash across him breezy waves. The music is louder down here, but no hands reach for him, no fingers touch. Klaus can feel them,  _ inexplicably _ , each and every single one of them, a living, beating pulse in the air and it makes him think of the ghosts, the ghosts who don’t pulse, the ghosts who take the shape of shadows, just the absence of life, sticky with the static of life that remains in their footsteps like gum on their shoes. 

 

Klaus can feel---

 

_ Diego _ . 

 

He opens his eyes and the absence of color sends him  _ reeling _ . 

 

Nothing but a sea of blue surrounds him, blue in every shade, and the manic mist that nips at his heels has risen up like rain falls down in shimmering pearls.  Diego stands out in sharp relief, still colorless, but familiar. He’s watching Klaus with a tangible heat, perfectly still in a mass of dancing, touching bodies. He is  _ rapt _ , and the light dances white in his dark eyes.  Klaus has slipped over into the other-world and Diego is cornerstone that keeps him from floating away. Klaus dances, and the crowd moves to his beat, a slow-motion molasses, hot sticky sweet and Klaus can feel all of them - Every. Single. Soul. 

 

When the cater is raised again, and Mitch meets him on the platform, Klaus isn’t entirely sure where he’s at. Mitch has a serious expression, one Klaus tries to emulate but loses to a slippery smile. “You’re hired,” Mitch says, as spritely teenage girls dressed in feather dusters sweep past him to scoop up bills from the floor of Klaus cage. They shove it all into a bag, a plastic shopping bag because recycling is cool - and hand it to him.  Klaus, with absent hands, takes a wad out for each of them - waitstaff tips out the hosts after all - while Mitch continues to talk. “Friday and Saturday - four shows a night.” 

 

“Okay - but money.” It’s why he’s here. It’s why he got a job. To buy Benny more soft pants and soft pretzels. “The cash, the coin, the brass ----” 

 

“Your boyfriend told me you’d walk for anything less than five-hundred a night plus tips.” Mitch has a hard look about him, but Klaus brain is still screeching past the word  _ boyfriend _ . “I agreed.” 

 

“Five hundred a night,” Klaus echoes, matching the amount of coke he could buy for that. It’s...a lot. “Just to cage dance?”  He could buy more coke than he could coke-a-cola, but that’s not him and so he just smiles. “No stripping. No tables, no poles.” 

 

The hard look on Mitch’s face doesn’t change, but Klaus still thinks he looks disappointed. “Five hundred a night, Friday and Saturday, four dances per night, and an hour in the Perch, no dancing, just...entertaining the highlights.” 

 

Which sounds like a fucking nightmare. Sounds like fucking---talking to handsy, rich, drunk men. The Perch was a balcony overlooking the floor, the dancers and the cages. Which would have been a fucking right party not so long ago,indeed Klaus had made a lot of friends in the Perch once upon a time. “Five hundred a night, Friday and Saturday, four dances per night, and two hours in the Birdhouse, dancing in a cage.” Where he is not expected to talk to anyone, but they are absolutely welcome to throw money at him. “And I want a table in the Perch for two guests of my choosing, any night I work.” 

 

Mitch’s eyes light up. 

“Plus tips,” Diego says, sidling up adjacent to the space between Klaus and Mitch, creating the most awkward triangle known to man.

 

Mitch holds out his hand and it’s so reminiscent of before that Klaus is almost afraid to touch it. But it’s different now. Klaus takes it, and shakes it. Mitch has an honest soul, Klaus can see it painted in blue now. 

 

“Your boyfriend better not start shit,” he adds, turning a gimlet eye on Diego. 

 

Klaus scoops an arm around Diego’s waist and cranes his neck to lick his a slick, wet stripe up his fucking face. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Klaus tells them very gleefully, feeling the fight in Diego, the  _ flee  _ instinct making his legs twitch. “He’s my brother.” 

***

 

They end up at a diner, Klaus and Diego.  “And can I get an order of scrambled eggs?” He snaps the menu shut. “Someone’s going to join us.” 

 

The waitress wanders away, as cups of coffee billow steam in serpentine spirals between them. “We’re expecting someone?” Diego asks, taking a straight sip of his coffee, black and flat and hotter than Beelzebub's liquidy-lava taint. Diego is a masochist, like that. 

 

Klaus, who loves himself, dumps a fourth packet of sugar into his own coffee, filling every available inch remaining in the cup with cream. Ben simmers into place beside him,  wearing a soft, olive green t-shirt and sweatpants that absolutely belong to Vanya. He has no shoes on, and his hair is soft and fluffy in a way Klaus hasn’t seen in such a long fucking time. “I ordered you eggs.” 

 

Ben settles back into his seat, and looks between Diego and Klaus with a far-away gaze. “I could go for some eggs.” 

**Author's Note:**

> eggs, bitch.


End file.
